Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Maden, Mike

  “I apologize if I offended you,” Brossa said.

  “Not at all. I’m sorry for my bad manners. Almost getting killed has put me in a lousy mood. The only reason I’m up to speed on Brigada Catalan is because I happened to read an article about them in El País yesterday. In English. So, yeah, maybe I’m just another American idiot, too.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that. So tell me, what brought you to Spain? Ms. Moore? She was your woman?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just friends. We hadn’t seen each other in years. It was a pure coincidence that she walked into the restaurant.”

  “My father says there is no such thing as coincidence,” Brossa said.

  Jack smiled, despite the headache.

  “Something funny, Mr. Ryan?”

  “Not really.”

  “And the reason you are in Spain?”

  The real reason he was in Spain was for R & R from missions he’d run for The Campus in Poland and Indonesia in the past several months, and to clear his mind from the death of his friend Liliana, and van Delden’s suicide. But Brossa wasn’t cleared to be read in on any of that.

  “I studied a little history in college, and read Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia—do you know it?”

  “Of course.”

  “We didn’t cover the Spanish Civil War in depth in class. I wanted to fill in the gaps by seeing it for myself.”

  Brossa eyed Jack up and down, trying to decide if he was bullshitting her or not.

  “And did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Ryan?”

  “I came to find out more about the war, but I wound up falling in love with Spain. It’s a fantastic country.”

  “Where have you been in Spain?”

  Chasing a couple of arms-smuggling shitbirds in Seville with The Campus last time I was here, Jack reminded himself.

  “It’s been a short trip, unfortunately. Just Madrid, and then here.”

  “You must come back, then, and see the rest. Galicia, Andalusia, the Basque region—Spain is not just one country, but a collection of many smaller ones.”

  “Already on my bucket list, believe me.”

  “So, Mr. Ryan—”

  “Please, call me Jack.”

  “Vale, Jack. Can you tell me what you last saw or heard before the explosion? Any protesters outside? Anyone suspicious?”

  “The place was packed for lunch. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. I’d say half locals, half tourists, maybe? I heard German, French, Norwegian, but mostly Català.”

  “You are very observant.”

  “Just a curious tourist.”

  “L’avi is very popular. One of the best in the city. I eat there often myself. No shouts of Visca Cataluña! before the blast? Or anything else that would indicate a motive for the attack?”

  “No, nothing like that. People were just eating and drinking and having a good time when I left, then suddenly—well, you know the rest.”

  “And your friend? What does she do? Why was she in Barcelona?” She pronounced the word Barcelona like an American—the c sounding like an s, unlike the Castilian Spanish of Madrid, which turned the c into a lispy th sound—Bar-thuh-lona.

  “I really don’t know. Business, maybe. I’m pretty sure she was there to meet somebody.” Jack reached into his shirt pocket and handed her Moore’s business card.

  “Who was she meeting there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Renée didn’t, either, judging by the way she reacted when she first saw me, Jack thought. Like maybe she thought he was the contact, but then she knew it wasn’t him. That meant she didn’t know what he looked like—and it was probably a guy.

  “The last thing she said to me before she died was a name. ‘Sammler.’ Maybe that’s the guy she was meeting.”

  Or, the man who killed her.

  “First name?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Brossa read Moore’s business card. “CrowdScope? What is that?”

  “A Silicon Valley fintech startup.”

  “Excuse me? ‘Fintech’?”

  “Companies that apply new technologies to financial transactions, like using data analytics to acquire new customers, or robo-investing. That kind of thing. Renée was a financial wizard.”

  “May I keep this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you happen to have your passport with you?”

  “Yes.” Jack pulled it out of a front zippered pocket of his cargo pants, stowed away against pickpockets, which were rife in the city.

  Brossa examined it, flipping pages for visa stamps. She snapped a picture of the page with Jack’s information and passport number before handing it back to him.

  “And you, Jack? What do you do?”

  “I’m in finance, too. But not fintech.” He pulled out his wallet, fished out a business card, and handed it to her. “I’m a financial analyst with Hendley Associates, out of Alexandria, Virginia.”

  “Interesting work, I imagine.”

  “Numbers always tell a story, if you know how to read them.” Something Paul Brown taught me years ago.

  Brossa’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, Jack.” She turned away and spoke into her phone. A short exchange. Jack watched her in his peripheral vision. She ended the call and sighed.

  “Jack, I’m sorry, I have to go. Is it possible you are staying in Barcelona for the next few days? I have more questions for you, and you are one of the few surviving eyewitnesses.”

  Jack didn’t know if he could extend his stay at his Airbnb, or if Gerry would give him the extra time off, but there was no way in hell he was going back home until he found out who killed Moore, and until he was certain her killer would be brought to justice. Helping this CNI agent would be the easiest way to ensure both.

  “Of course. But I need you to do me a favor.”

  “If I can.”

  “I need you to look into this Sammler guy for me. I think that name is going to be important for solving this case.”

  Brossa gave him another searching look. Finally, her first, small smile.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  6

  It was a twenty-minute walk from the placeta where he’d been treated for his injuries back to his Airbnb apartment in Barceloneta, the old workers’ neighborhood down by the beach that had recently been revitalized.

  The explosion at the restaurant had put authorities on edge. Blue lights from police cars and motorcycles flashed at every intersection and helicopters hovered protectively around the Ciutat Vella.

  Despite predictions to the contrary, no massive rallies for Catalonian independence spontaneously materialized. Jack didn’t know if the peaceful protesters were afraid of suffering violence or being blamed for more of it if another bombing attack occurred tonight.

  In this part of town, tourists seemed completely unaware of what had occurred just a kilometer away, only an hour before as they flocked past the restaurants, hotels, and gelaterias on Passeig de Joan de Borbó approaching the sea. Despite his attempts to clean up back at the church, some of the more observant did notice his bloodstained clothing.

  His head still pounding, Jack ducked into a tiny Carrefour Express for some aspirin and bottled water. He popped a couple and washed them down with a long gulp as he crossed back into the alley toward his place, willing himself up the fifty-seven narrow, winding marble stairs to his door on the third floor.

  Still feeling like he’d been dragged behind a car on a rocky dirt road, he stripped off his clothes and hit the small but generous shower, letting the steam and hot water work their magic. He couldn’t stop thinking about Moore and the light fading from her dimming eyes. Such a waste. A brilliant and beautiful woman who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He toweled off, trying to solve a couple
of mysteries about her. A fintech kinda made sense—finance was her thing. But a Silicon Valley startup? He remembered distinctly her dream of running, if not outright owning, a white-shoe Wall Street investment firm. Both of her parents were corporate executives and had groomed her for the same life. She never struck him as the entrepreneurial type. On the risk-reward continuum, she was heavily slanted toward the latter.

  Maybe something went sideways in her career? Had to start over? And what would a Silicon Valley tech executive be doing in Barcelona? Possibly on vacation, like him, but not likely. She didn’t have the wide-eyed look of a tourist. She was all business in her demeanor, and clearly on a mission to find whoever it was she was supposed to meet—someone she had obviously never met before, which is a strange way to do business.

  His headache finally ebbing from the aspirin and shower, Jack reached into the fridge and grabbed a can of Mahou Radler, a clara—a Spanish beer mixed with lemon soda—which he’d come to crave these last few days. He plopped down at the little kitchen dinette that served as his office space and opened up his laptop, encrypted for security by Hendley Associates’ IT director, Gavin Biery.

  It was just five o’clock in the afternoon, local. He pulled up the contact information for the U.S. Consulate in Barcelona in order to call them and tell them about Renée, in case the Spanish authorities hadn’t yet done so. He discovered that the consulate had closed to the public at one p.m. He could call a 24-hour hotline but he wanted to do it in person. He decided to pay them a visit first thing in the morning.

  He then Googled Moore’s company, CrowdScope, and found the corporate website. It was about what he expected: “Optimizing capital investments and business solutions through big data analytics,” blah, blah, blah. Standard corporate speak, stock photos, and bullet points. Nothing interactive. He clicked on the “Who We Are” tab and found Moore’s contact information. She was listed as “Vice President of Marketing,” just as she was on her business card.

  Marketing?

  Her phone number and a CrowdScope e-mail address were also given. It was a lot of information but didn’t really say much, but that was pretty common these days. Style over substance. Corporate clickbait.

  It was eleven a.m. EST and Jack saw that Gavin was online back in Alexandria. He dialed Gavin’s direct number on his smartphone.

  “Jack! I was just getting ready to shoot you a text. I read about the explosion in Barcelona. You weren’t anywhere near it, were you? The photos online looked pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. But a friend of mine was there and got killed.”

  “Oh, jeez. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, but I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’d like you to do a little digging into my friend for me. I’ll send over the contact information and some links. I’d like to know more about the company she was working for, and more important, see if you can find a connection between her and a guy named Sammler—last name, I’m sure, no first. Phone records, OSINT, whatever you can find out about this guy, and what he had to do with Renée.”

  “What kind of connection should I be looking for? You think this Sammler guy is tied to the bombing somehow?”

  “Not sure. But his name was the last thing she said before she died, so I figure he must be important to her, and maybe he might have an idea about what happened.”

  “Sounds like you were nearly killed yourself.”

  “Not really,” Jack lied.

  “I’ll jump right on this. Things are pretty quiet around here right now. The whole team is still out on vacation, just like you. Even Gerry, so I’ve got time to kill.”

  “Thanks, Gav. I really appreciate it.”

  “Question for you. Did you see any CCTV cameras in the restaurant? What was its name?”

  Jack chided himself. Why didn’t he think of that? Maybe the explosion rattled his skull harder than he realized.

  “The name is L’avi.” He spelled it out. “And yes, I did see cameras. Three of them. It would be awesome if you could get your hands on those tapes. Might tell us everything we need to know.”

  “Won’t be easy.”

  “Any chance you can hack the restaurant’s computer and grab them?”

  “Not if the computer has been blown to smithereens. And most likely, the videos are on digital cards or even actual digital tape if the system’s old enough. I’m guessing the local police have already recovered whatever survived the blast.”

  “I’m betting the cops don’t have it. My guess is the CNI might—those are the people who interviewed me after the blast. I’ll be seeing my contact again tomorrow, I’m sure. I’ll see what I can do on my end.”

  “I’ll call you if I find anything. Just watch yourself, okay?”

  “You know it.”

  Jack drained his clara as he put an e-mail together for Gavin with links to CrowdScope and everything else he could think of and sent it off. He sent another e-mail to Gerry, informing him he was extending his stay in Spain for a few more days but Gerry’s auto reply bounced back, informing Jack that Gerry wouldn’t be back in the office for another week. He took that as permission to hang around. He’d ask for forgiveness later, if needed.

  Jack then remembered about extending his stay at his place—packing up and moving would be a pain in the butt. He shot a quick message through the Airbnb site and his landlord responded minutes later, telling Jack he was thrilled to extend his stay for another week. Jack paid for the extension online in advance then remembered to put his return airline ticket on hold.

  He also thought about his mom, who was not only a world-class eye surgeon and ophthalmologist but also a heck of a psychic, as all good mothers were. She always seemed to know when he or one of his siblings was dancing on the edge of something that could hurt them. He dropped her a text telling her that he was far from the explosion she’d probably heard about on the news and that he was coming home soon. It was the kind of lie he could only pull off in a text because she would have seen right through him if he was standing in her presence.

  Thank God for texting.

  Satisfied he’d gotten a jump on things, he grabbed another clara from the fridge and dropped back in front of his computer. He’d only really glanced at the Brigada Catalan article and its brief references to other recent events connected to them. Since he had some time to kill, he decided to dig deeper. If Brigada Catalan was responsible for Renée’s death, he’d do everything he could to help Brossa track them down.

  What the CNI agent didn’t realize was that if she wasn’t able or willing to deliver the justice that Renée deserved, he’d find a way to do it himself, one bullet at a time.

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later, Jack shut his computer, his eyes watering from the river of facts about Catalonian independence he’d just been wading through. Gavin hadn’t called him back and he was hungry, so he decided on a hole-in-the-wall stand-up pizza joint around the corner for carryout.

  He snagged up his apartment keys and headed out, still processing what he’d just read. The Catalonian independence movement was anything but monolithic. But it was pretty clear the source of the current troubles was Catalonia’s 2017 independence referendum, which passed by an overwhelming ninety percent of the vote—despite Madrid’s attempts to disrupt it. Madrid declared the whole thing illegal and jailed the offending members of the Generalitat—the local legislature—and the rest of the Catalonian independence politicians fled, including the president, seeking asylum abroad.

  The officials in the European Union sided with Madrid against the Catalonian independence politicians. Brussels still had Brexit on its mind, not to mention the French Yellow Vests, the Italian Lega, Ireland’s Sinn Féin, and others, a
nd wholly supported Madrid’s actions. This only fueled Catalonian frustrations. The EU constitution promised self-determination and, certainly, voting rights, and both appeared to be violated in equal measure by both Madrid’s heavy-handed actions and Brussels’s failure to recognize Catalonia’s claims.

  According to what Jack read in the press, that’s when Brigada Catalan was born.

  Of course, history was the context for all of this.

  Catalonia had a distinct and separate national identity going back as far as the Roman era and the fifth-century Visigoth kings who succeeded them. They lost their independence and were absorbed into the Spanish empire by the Bourbon king Philip V, who conquered them in the beginning of the eighteenth century.

  In the 1930s, under the Spanish Republic, Catalonia was granted increasing autonomy, but the Spanish Civil War ended that dream. Catalonia had been the heart of the resistance to Franco’s final overthrow of the Republican government in 1939. In revenge, the Fascist Franco regime suppressed their language and culture for decades.

  Complicating everything else, Catalonia had always been the industrial heart of modern Spain and its most prosperous region. Consequently, Madrid had always taken a disproportionate share of its tax base from the region, another source of local resentment.

  Since Franco’s death, Catalonian rights had been largely restored, and Català was now the primary language taught in its schools. Despite these reforms, Catalonian nationalists pressed for complete independence from Spain and the creation of an independent Catalonian state. Other regions in Spain, particularly the Basque, had expressed similar desires decades before and resorted to a bombing campaign that was ultimately subdued by Madrid.

  Spanish nationalist parties in Madrid wanted both order and central government, and saw Catalonian nationalism as a threat to the Spanish state. If Catalonia seceded, other regions in Spain might follow.

  Europe and the rest of the world were struggling with the centralism-nationalism debate. The benefits of national and regional integration were obvious—especially for the political elites and transnational corporations—but always at the cost of local identity and autonomy.